


Dreamers

by veeoheyedee



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22933828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veeoheyedee/pseuds/veeoheyedee
Summary: Perfectly ordinary dreams from dreadfully ordinary people.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	1. Samson

A storm raged outside Samson’s tent. Rain droplets cascaded against the leather walls like cannonballs made of dust, yet their sheer numbers alone threatened to tear a hole through his defenses and flood its interior. Brutish winds played counter to its wet ally’s intentions and attacked instead from the side, whipping the tent into a frenzy as the wind tried to blow it away in its entirety. Inside the tent, a fire illuminated all in its controlled glow, unfazed by the wailing and bluster of the outside world, and Samson shared its calm as he sat alone beside it, dragging the whetstone gripped in his hand across the edge of his blade, letting sparks join the embers wafting lazily from the firepit. 

A lidded pot sat raised above the flame, boiling, or stewing, or burning something or other. It smelled of nothing, and it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be tasting whatever might have been inside it, as much as he knew that the storm outside would cause him no harm. It had been there when he arrived, and whether the pot and its contents even belonged to him was not a question he sought an answer to. The weapon in his hand should have been a hefty lift even as he sat, yet it felt as weightless as a feather. He sharpened the blade with no intention of use, only to give himself something to do until the storm subsided, until the moment passed.

Samson was dreaming, and he knew it. Nothing that happened during this time mattered at all. He sat, alone, knowing that he would wake up soon. It was only a matter of when.

Samson looked up from the fire. His old apprentice was hunkered down by the closed tent entrance, as he did every other time Samson dreamed. His entire body was drenched, his clothing nothing more than moulded rags, though the ground beneath him remained completely dry. His apprentice was looking away from him, towards the tent, fixed to the ground like a statue. The light inside the tent had no effect on his body, and yet every inch of him was clearly visible. 

Samson returned his gaze to the fire. He knew what was going to happen next. Every night, he would sit, alone, and wait out the thrashing storm. His tent was sturdy, his fire was bright, his sword was sharp, and nothing would happen. He was assured of his safety. At first Samson had felt fear beyond compare, not realising at the time that he was trapped in a prison of his own design. The unmoving figure of the familiar young man across from him; Samson had spoken to it as though expecting a response. Now he understood that he would receive none. The rain assaulted and the wind howled like a pack of wolves, both as hungry and eager to rip at his flesh.  
Neither could make him falter. 

His first release from the perceived danger of this realm felt like a miracle, the second a minor blessing, and before long the patterns had folded into place. His expectations were met every time he climbed into bed and closed his tired, aged eyes, and a tolerable, perhaps even comfortable monotony eventually replaced the stress and the worry that this time, maybe, his walls would come crashing down on top of him.

Any time now, Samson would leave this dream. He would soon look again at the dripping form of his former apprentice, and eventually, the statue would turn its head, and before Samson could even get one look at its face, he would wake up. The familiarity of this routine was almost preferable to the growing aches and pains of his physical form. The flame before him was like a friend, like family. He knew it well, both here and there, and though Samson had grown evermore distant from it in the waking world, he could still sometimes feel the heat warming his face, hear the coals crackle and see the sparks fly as he forged the metal to the befitting of great warriors and kings alike. Remembering those times filled the mould of his heart with happiness, only to feel the sharp, biting rush of pain washing over it, hardening it to steel, for reasons he could not see, but could certainly feel. At times, Samson longned to have those days back, and then quickly rejected them in equal measure. He could only revel in old times for so long before needing to face the reality ahead of him. 

And yet, with every night that passed, the dream became a little longer, and as the dream became longer, the rain and the winds grew a little stronger, growled a little louder, and his illuminating flame fell a little dimmer. Samson did, some nights, stare at his apprentice, counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours, waiting, waiting for the moment he would be granted passage back to his lonely life beyond leather and elements. Samson did, some other nights, stare at the fire, revel in its orange sway, grind his weightless weapon and wonder, wonder what would happen if either the beasts outside broke through the barricades, or the friend that lit his sanctuary was finally snuffed out.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen tonight. His dream, for what it was worth, was no different from his life. A shattered leg and failing eyesight had secured his hovel-dwelling isolation for the remainder of his days. He had no companions left to turn to, no family left to love. His only contacts with the outside world came in the form of the few and needy that had halted their journey for a half-hearted meal and to make use of his self-advertised cobbling skills for less than a pittance, for his abode was but one stop on the road to greater ventures, and they wished to not starve and for their feet to not bloody the stones that laid the paths away from his home. His food came to him as gifts from the nearby farm animals sold on by the master of the land they roamed, and he paid for them with services and gratitude alone. 

The local towns and villages knew him as Samson the Cobbler, Saviour of Soles, the welcoming hermit that lived in the wilderness between Fastoon and Caliade, but none of them knew of Samson the retired Blacksmith, the once-upon-a-time Swordweaver of Dasad, and Samson the failed Teacher, the failed Husband, the failed... and neither did they make any attempt to know. They could not have thought to ask. That life was long ago, far away, a fleeting memory burned in fire and reduced to ash a thousand times over, yet a memory that remained with him all the same. He often wished he could simply blow it all away and be free from it.

But here, in his dream, Samson had his flame. He worked on perfecting his craft. His apprentice remained ever vigilant before him, even as water streamed down his soaking body. The storm outside would never faze him. He had almost everything he loved and had tried so hard to forget right in front of him, and it was wrong, and it was deceitful, and it was a lie, but it was what he thought he wanted. He wanted it so badly that he would stay here until the end of days, until his weapon had been whittled down to a stub, until the fire drew its last breath and all fell into darkness.

Samson sighed. He closed his eyes tight and became awash with what such a world would look like, and came to a decision. It was time for him to wake up once more.

He set the weapon at his side, took a deep breath of scentless air, and then reeled when a familiar voice filled the tent.

“Do you hear that, Boss?”

Samson dared not open his eyes. His dreams had passed with silence every time, teetering on the precipice of a conversation only to have him plummet onto his bed and awaken. The storm outside went eerily quiet, and soon, the fire began to pierce his eyelids, as though burning him out of his position of safety. Samson took hold of his weapon as he cautiously submitted to the light.

His apprentice stared at him. His skin had faded blue, and bright white pearls had embedded themselves in the skin beneath his left eye. His cheeks had been rended by unknown claws, exposing the bone that lay beneath, and his mouth hung open in imitation of a dumbfounded fish. His eyes remained sharp, focused on Samson, the only part of his face that looked remotely alive. 

Fear gripped Samson’s shoulders, holding him in place to take in every detail of the person across the firepit. Water flowed from his apprentice’s matted hair and onto the flames beneath, causing no reaction. His apprentice lowered his head with unnatural haste, then brought it forward, then towards the tent entrance, like a corvid surveying its environment.

Samson’s words barricaded themselves inside his throat. He hadn’t heard his former apprentice speaking in years, yet it was unmistakably his voice. Arinth. The boy had come to him as young as thirteen, face dirtied and feet bare and seeking knowledge of a trade, at a time when Samson drifted from place to place like an unsure leaf caught in a confused gust, a wandering shoesmith with no reputation. Samson took him under his wing with little pushback, for he knew a promising urchin when he saw one, and the roads ahead were always fogged with uncertainty for one that travelled alone. His cobbling skills had been rudimentary then, Samson knew, but his affinity for the hammer guided him and Arinth to a successful and comfortable life of travel for years to come. The apprentice had gained a teacher, and Samson had gained someone to care for, someone to pass his skills down to. They had planned to open their own business together, and in time, Samson had wished to pass down his secrets of metalurgey and, if need be, weaponcraft. When the time was right.  
If only he hadn’t turned his sights on the land beyond the wild, untamable ocean, such a life may have come to pass for Samson & Son.

He’d rather cast Arinth’s face away from his memory than ruminate on things that never came to pass for one moment longer. As Samson regained composure, the storm outside returned to its comfortable rage. He was still in control, and if need be, he would force this dream to end through will alone, before anything else unfamiliar happened.  
Arinth looked his way again, unblinking. An icy chill froze Samson’s body.

“Listen,” Arinth said. His mouth did not move.

The storm went quiet once again. All Samson could hear was the pot above the fire rattling louder, and louder, as if preparing to erupt its contents. Arinth began to click his tongue, blood red in the void of his mouth, rhythmically, quietly, mimicking distant hooves. The more he focused on Arinth, the more boisterous the pot became, and every time he shifted his attention from one to the other, the opposing sound became louder - more alarming, dangerous, terrifying, real - until the hooves were ready to trample him and the pot was ready to scald him, and he took hold of his weapon, charged for the tent entrance, and then--

Nothing.

There was no storm outside his tent, - no wind blew, no rain flowed. There was no evidence that a storm had even existed. There was no horse. There were no horseshoe prints. There were no trees. There was no grass. There was no ground. There was no scent. There was no sound. There was no life.

There was nothing.

Samson breathed a sigh of relief and returned inside the tent. He sat down with a grunt, leaving his weapon at his side. “False alarm,” he said, near breathless from the panicked exertion. Arinth looked up from the opposite side of the fire, tightening his lips. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and moved around behind Samson. Their guest stared intently at the pot simmering away above the fire, as though waiting to see what delights waited inside. 

“Getting right hungry,” Arinth said, patting his hollow stomach. “Gotta be ready by now, Boss, surely.”

“Patience, lad,” Samson said, his voice as smooth as gravel. “These things take ti--.”

Their guest tore the lid off the pot and held its hooded head over it. An overwhelming sensation came over Samson as the world span around him. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head, and then frowned and craned his head towards the unpopulated space that the hooded figure occupied.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but who are you?”

Arinth breathed in with a satisfied moan. “Smells like good eatin,’” he said, and from behind, a slimy hand took grip of Samson’s neck and drove his head into the bubbling broth of a far too small pot.

It tasted like home.

Samson forced his head back, inhaling deeply as he surfaced from the viscous liquid. His mother slinked around the kitchen table, a trail of camomile and biscuits wafting behind her as she leaned down toward his face, smiling. “Fall asleep again did you?” she said, her dulcet tones echoing from another reality. She stroked Samson’s hair, then set an overflowing bowl in front of him as he yawned and straightened up, then she glided across the floor to do the same for Arinth, who grinned and pushed back his long stringy hair before grabbing a spoon.

“Thanks, Mrs F.” he said, before unhinging his jaw and devouring the bowl and part of the table with it. He sat the spoon back down.

With a graceful spin, Mother whisked towards the and the sun shone through the window sat a bowl down in front of illuminating the idyllic scene of his home, when he had family and love and a faceless figure sat across the table from Samson he reached his small childish hand out to indulge in his Mother’s special homemade hotpot and it watched Mother with curious intent as she skulked towards Father, in the corner, a hulking slab of muscle observed only from behind as he clanged, and clanged, and clanged in his molten workshop, creating sparks of life with godlike power, striking precious steel intended for the invaders that worshiped golden deities and soaring birds. 

With every swing of the hammer his Father made, Samson felt the man’s resentment ripple through his bones. He brought a mouthful of his Mother’s recipe to his mouth and sent the spoon clattering to the floor, clutching his hands over his mouth as it burned from the inside out. He fell off the chair and saw Mother cowering behind Father as silver-plated bandits stormed their home, brandishing the triangular seal of their nation, their faces but shadows beneath their helmets. Father held them off with overpowering zeal, while Arinth bounced around them frantically, arms outstretched and shouting “Alright, calm down boys, calm down!” 

Samson saw the black figure in the corner of his eye, standing, watching. Its cloak dripped thick like tar. As his Father reared up his mighty hammer, the figure touched the weapon’s steel-plated head with distinct curiosity, and its gangly fingers tore off and shadowed its trail as Father struck, and a thunderous earthquake shattered the floor of their home, and Samson plunged downwards alongside the invaders, and Mother, and Father. They disintegrated to dust before his eyes. 

Samson landed on his head with a sickening thud, then opened his eyes to the sight of reddened clouds and ashen skies. A persistent wail echoed from everywhere, all at once, as the wagon he rode on struggled along an unwelcoming road. Children sat like undead around him, their eyes empty and bodies shrivelled. The driver did not move an inch, while Arinth stood, both hands planted on the edge of the cart, struggling to maintain balance. “Slow down a bit, mate, would ya’” he said, his words jumping with each jitter of the cart. Arinth shook his head then looked at Samson, and a spurt of deep blue water launched out from the corner of his mouth. “Y’don’t look too well, Boss, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Samson didn’t know what was happening. Where was Mother? Where was Father? Why did his head hurt so bad? The tears held his vision hostage, and no amount of wiping would clear them. He just wanted to go home.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and then clang opened them again with a yawn before clang rolling out of bed and smoothing out his clang apron and dragging his teenaged body clang over to sit opposite his master. clang He had been given the honour of handling the horseshoes today clang which wasn’t his most favourite thing, but he knew clang he had to earn the trust of his master before the black figure stepped out through the cracks in the air and threw Samson against the wall, frightening the foundations that much too quickly came face to face with his back, and then Freyan pinned his hand against the wooden wall and brought her face close to his as the breeze kissed their cheeks.

“You’re hopeless,” she whispered in his ear, and with a smile as warm as forge fire, the love of his life lifted Samson’s calloused hand up and slipped a ring onto his finger, and his heart stopped. To his fiance’s left, Arinth appeared, head nodding and mouth rounded and thumb raised firmly in approval, and to her right a black shadow filled the space, shimmering with a sickening pulse as Freyan kissed his hand and led him into the darkness and something was wrong, something was wrong, something was wrong and Samson tried to tear his hand away and brought the hammer down upon glowing metal, and with every strike his confidence flourished as his being filled with years of bliss and happiness as his works morphed from crude slop into gleaming masterworks, and he could feel Freyan’s hand guiding his own as the searing flames of his workshop surrounded them. He turned his head, and his wife smiled, but it was hollow and wrong and with every passing moment she became more precious to him and she was wrong and the fire crawled up her skin while the figure beside them watched and watched and she smiled as she took his hand and placed it on her pale bloody belly and it grew and grew and grew and

then

she

Samson

woke up to an excited Arinth tugging at his bedclothes, clutching in his hand the cobbled together mess of an overnight creation with all the elation of a sugar-soused animal, and beside him Arnith huffed a breath of displeasure, and a fish fell out from under his waterlogged clothing and fell into the wooden floor with a splash. “Amateur,” he said.

The wooden door of his tent knocked, and Samson stood up and sat back down and stood up and sat back down and stood up and screamed and stood up and sat back down and Freyan and back down and stood up and went to answer the door, where a proud soldier of Dasad handed him a letter, and Samson shook his head, rejected the letter with a slam and knew he had to escape for everything was wrong, and the door shattered to pieces and formed a tendril around his neck, and his black hooded guest loomed above him as it drove him helplessly to his knees and Samson pleaded silently to not go back, to not remember, choking as tar snaked into his mouth and drove into his mind like pins working the tumblrs of a fragile lock, and he heard Freyan, the love of his life, crying in agony as a new life exchanged her place in his world.  
Hammers struck the nothing around him, rupturing Samson to his core. A Devil sat at the table in the nothing, tiny and frail, reading books that Samson could not understand as swords and shield and works of art piled up around him, hiding the Devil from his view as spark and flame consumed Samson’s soul in the name of his King. An endless waterfall of ale flowed into his flagon, and his vision blurred over as he stood up from his workshop and stumbled outside, weapon in hand to present to the royal inspector, and with a curt nod, the man in red exploded like an inkwell against parchment and lifted Samson effortlessly by his head and introduced him to the ground beneath his feet with a kiss that broke his nose. The skin of his eyelids stretched to their limits as the dark figure intruder intruder forced him to look at the Devil child, held up by its tail in the four-fingered hand of his faceless neighbour, shouting and flailing incomprehensibly while a crowd gathered, robed and gliding across the melting ground one by one, and Samson gritted his teeth and clawed his fingers and tried to break free from this vision,

And yet, the figure held Samson there.

For the longest time.

As the Devil child smiled at him.

With implicit trust.

And Samson felt a warmth oozing down his head as tears welled in his eyes.

When the Devil child was dropped into a shallow grave.

And the crowd gathered round.

Torches in hand.

And one by one.

They dropped them in.

And set the hole aflame.

While the Devil child lay curled.

His tail torn and bleeding.

And his son smiled at him.  
With absolute trust. 

As the flames burned his body to ash.

One by one, the crowd lowered their hoods.

And Samson recognised them all.

There was Samson, the Blacksmith.

And beside him was Samson, the Blacksmith.

And next to him was Samson, the Blacksmith.

And then there was Samson, the Blacksmith, and Samson the Blacksmith, and Samson the Samsom and Samson and SamsonSamsonsamsonsamsonsamsonsamson and with a pathetic cry of denial Samson ran from the consuming flame, ran into the unknown as the hammers bashed the earth around him, smashed his forge to rubble, and a door appeared, in the distance, and he held his arm outstretched, reaching for freedom, and he touched its glowing surface when a sword fell down and pierced his arm.

Samson froze, as though carved of the most brittle of stone. Arinth held his hand on the door, its angelic glow shining through his arm as though it were stained glass, and then brought Samson’s arm down to his side. He fell to his knees, and Arinth hunkered down to meet his eyes with unblinking focus.

“Have you ever wondered with these Blacksmiths,” Arinth said, low and contemplative, as another sword fell from the sky. “Like, when they make a weapon, you know-” another sword fell, right beside Arinth, “-and pass it on to a soldier, or whatever like,” he shrugged, and another sword fell beside him. “Do you think they feel, pride, when someone uses their creation to, ah--” Arinth grunted as he made stabbing motions with his hands, for much too long and far too aggressively, and another fifteen blades fell all around them, “--do y’think it’s the same for a blacksmith as doing the job themselves?”

Samuel knew the answer, but for the sake of his apprentice, he remained silent. He heard the chaos rapturing behind him, and felt every blade that precipitated from the sky upon the city of Dasad, demolishing the city with indiscriminate senselessness. One-thousand and thirty seven masterpieces, each one containing a little piece of his soul, until he had none left for himself. 

All in the name of his King.

Arinth shrugged, smirked, and stood up. “Just a thought, Boss,” he said, and then wandered back into the ether. 

Samson remained, praying before the illustrious door before him. The sword in his arm had dissolved to a scar, broad and unsightly, and in the quiet of the eternal he understood, finally, why he wished, at times, to see his flame peter out, why he wished, at times, to see the storm consume him, and that the figure which filled every single part of the midnight void now surrounding him had come to witness him suffer, had unlocked the memories that Samson felt deep within, but could no longer see. 

He longed for fires that burned him, he yearned for family that the world snatched away from him, he wished for… the son that he loved too little, and too late. His head swelled as the tears rolled. The invader of his mind had calmed, as though granting Samson centre stage to explain himself, to shout into the void and be heard, and yet, he hesitated. There was too much to process, too many explanations to forward, too many excuses to make, and he wondered if it would even matter now. What reason could he give to a voyeur that would justify the mistakes he had made, or the wrongs that laid out of his control? 

Samson raised his head, and blinded himself. “Are you satisfied now?” he said. The shadow swallowed his meek voice, and produced no response. “If punishment is what you sought to deliver, then consider me a broken man.” He breathed in through his nose in stutters, and his wrinkled hands gripped at the loose clothing of his legs. “But know this - I have served my sentence, a man of eighty years and lifetime of squandered chances. You think you know everything about me, think you can squeeze the essence of a person’s being out by force, but you are wrong. Whatever you are, you are nothing. You are as a louse, clinging to the failing memories of an old man, yet there are things no man or demon will ever know, no words that even exist to--”

A corpse dropped unceremoniously in front of Samson, and smiled at him. Samson reeled back in horror, broken from his speech.

A voice resonated inside Samson’s mind, and from every direction, and belonged to neither man, woman, beast or demon.  
“Did you kill him?” 

Samson breathed heavily as he scrambled away, the door growing dimmer with distance. Another corpse dropped, smiling. A child.

“Did you kill him?”

Samson tried to stand only to find himself forcibly stuck to the floor like resin. Another corpse, smiling. He had Freyan’s eyes.

“Did you kill him?”

Samson yelped out in whisper. “No.” Another corpse landed on his feet. Smiling.

“Did you kill him?”

“No.” And another.

“Did you kill him?”

“NO!” Samson felt blood dripping onto his head as another corpse fell. He was too scared to look up, and yet, he could feel the love of his life smiling down on him like a weight on his back.

“Did you kill him.” The voice’s tone suddenly changed.

“I didn--” Smiling.

“Did you kill him.” 

“I didn’t--” smiling

“Did you kill--”

“I did not kill my SON!” Samson’s lungs exploded. He felt his own vital fluids leaking from his mouth, before wiping them away and shutting his eyes.

“I-- I didn’t kill my son,” he whispered. His flesh convulsed like a wave of leeches crawling under his skin. He felt as though he could be sick.

A silence passed, and then, the voice gave its verdict.

“No,” it said. “You merely crafted the knife that did.”

Samson, in tears, gave no response.

And no words were heard again, until Samson rose his shuddering carcass of a body to its feet, and raised its head like a guilty child. The door was open.

“Go,” said the voice, and then struck Samson in the back of the head, sending him tumbling forward like a boulder of flesh and slammed the door behind him. “End it.”

A storm raged, rocking the ship to and fro, as sailors and passengers slid from one end to the other, unmoving statues sculpted in dramatic poses. Instinctively, Samson scrambled to his feet and trudged his way to the side of the ship. Veins of lightning filled the sky as he looked overboard and saw Arinth floating on a plank of driftwood, paddling away at the ocean water with his hands. Samson screamed his name, and Arinth’s pink and lively face looked up at him.

“Arinth!” 

Arinth waved. “Alright, Boss?” 

Samson panicked, looking around him for anything he could throw out to save the young man, but no rope was long enough and no man was mad enough to leap into the crashing waves below. In desperation, Samson stretched out his hand as far as he could manage, and begged his apprentice to take hold.

Anrith, in a quick judge of distance, looked at his master's hand and asked, “Does it go out further than that?”

“Arinth, please son! You’ll drown!”

“Ahhh,” Arinth said, waving a hand frivolously as he slowly began to drift away. “It’s no worry. Wasn’t too bad the first time, you know. Just imagine yourself taking a really long, cold bath, right?”

“Arinth!” The boy drifted even further, and dread set in when the driftwood began to sink beneath his weight.

“Really, really long,” Arinth said, nodding in satisfaction as the ocean took his legs. He looked to his left, then to his right. “Like, really-this’s a looot of water, not gonna lie.” Arinth sniffed, watching the starving ocean swallow his chest, and then looked up at Samson. “Actually, Boss, I don’t think I can handle th--” and the bubbles stole his words and his head sunk under the water with a plume of steam, that billowed, and flared, and with volcanic force the water turned to molten liquid of golden orange spreading outwards like a flower blooming in summer, and the ship keeled over, sacrificing Samson to its majesty. He struggled to stay afloat, gasping for air as his head bobbed along the surface before before the waves forced him under for good, and he fell, fell fell and landed flat on the anvil of his world, and he could barely stand before the hammer clanged, and clanged, and clanged upon his head, and then again, and again until he fell to all fours, and again, again until he spat out sparks and again, and again until he was laid out on his stomach and again, and again and again and again until he could take it no more, and then

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then Samson broke his leg.

But it didn’t matter.

And then nothing.

Nothing.

And then Samson made a shoe.

But it didn’t matter.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then a few people travelled from Fastoon to Caliade, just to meet the hermit that would arm you with a full belly and shield your feet for less than a pittance, just to keep a lonely old man some company for a day.

But it didn’t matter. 

Nothing.

And then the farmer brought him gifts from the animals, cheese, milk, and a special pie on the side from him and the missus, alongside all their love and gratitude.

But it didn’t matter.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Samson dreamed of a fire, burning bright, as a storm raged outside his tent. The longer he waited, the harder the storm would rage. The longer he waited, the dimmer his fire fell. He held nothing in his hands, but behind him laid a history of swords and shoes, and the hammer that forged them all. None of that mattered anymore. He had everything he wanted in front of him, sharing in the warmth of his fire. Mother, and Father, and the love of his life, and his apprentice. They sat, like statues, facing him. Smiling. And so did he.

Yet still, he felt it there, in the corner of his eye. Watching, observing. Samson knew it had got what it came for. So why did it remain? Perhaps, after all, it did seek more. An explanation. An elucidation. That he would spill every fibre of his being to a parasite and lie naked for all to see. No. That was not for it, or anyone else but himself to know. 

He did not kill his son, and that was the truth. What it wanted with that information, he did not know, and he no longer cared. It had already stolen a fifth guest from him, and maybe that was for the best. Samson knew in his heart that he was not worthy of that child’s company. He did not kill his son, but maybe, he may as well have. 

The flame grew dimmer with every passing moment, and the faces of those he had loved, those who had died, fell into shadows. He held onto the sagging skin of his hand, and bowed his head in preparation.

“I forgive you,” said a voice. Samson did not react, even as a figure took him in its arms. It was not his son, but

It felt like Feryan, and it felt like Mother, and it felt like Father, and Arinth, and his master, and the visitors to his abode, and everyone that had ever held a love in their heart for him.

But, it was not his son.

He breathed steadily. Then he whimpered. Then he cried. “I’m sorry,” Samson whispered.

The figure stroked his head gently, and Samson wrapped his arms around it. It felt cold.

“It’s okay,” the figure said. Its voice was formless, yet comfortably familiar.

“I’m sorry,” Samson sobbed.

The storm outside subsided to give an old man some peace. The figure moved close to his ear and spoke with no mouth.

“He has been given a second chance.”

Samson could barely comprehend the gravity of the figure’s words. He simply nodded, tears carving a path through the aged valleys in his face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Send him your best. For us.”

“I’m sorry...” The words could barely escape Samson’s throat. His head thumped and his leg buckled, but the figure kept him upright.

“Shhh,” it whispered. “You’re so very tired.”

And he was. He was so very, very tired. The figure held him tighter, and Samson did the same.

“Please. It’s time to sleep.”

And it was. It was time for Samson to sleep.

His eyelids fluttered, and his vision blurred.

And he felt the ichor seeping into his mouth, like tree roots searching for secrets in the soil.

But he was so very, very tired. 

The coveted flame was little more than a flicker now, and on seeing it, the figure laid Samson down to rest, placing the old man’s hands atop his chest. 

“Thank you,” Samson said. He smiled at the absence of space in front of him, as though he’d met an old friend after many long years, and then slowly, weakly, peacefully, closed his eyes.

“No,” the figure said quietly, yet its voice filled the space between spaces, untraceable, unescapable, “thank you, Samson.”

With a gentle swipe, the figure picked up the lingering flame that Samson desired so much, flickering and wavering like a mischievous wisp caught in a wild thrashing of magical winds. 

And so a little wisp should, for dreams were magic, and it rested now in the formless hands of this realm’s very essence; a weaver, a caretaker, a troublemaker. Harmless, yet chaotic, by Goddess design.

But, alas, the Goddesses no longer observed this land, and therefore, their rules no longer applied. 

With a curious glance and a craning of its current form’s head, it cupped the flame with tar coated tendrils and held it over Samson’s mouth before carefully releasing it from its grasp.

The flame fluttered down like a speck of dust, and, with the last, rasping breath of a tired old man, it entered Samson’s body.

And on that night, within that dream, a great and terrible monster was forged.


	2. Xantor

The Oxlong Trail spanned the five mile distance between the farming villages of Windslow and Dairche. What once started off as little more than common grass and dirt, the Trail had been beaten down over many years by humans, animals and cart alike, until the earth shed its green hairs and lamented its baldness. The Trail’s initial purpose was to carve a path through the Cantlin Forest, a once formidable barrier that separated the villages from efficient and essential trade. Though the creation of the path was rife with danger from the forest’s denizens, the two villages persisted, and with a generation’s sacrifice they managed to cut their meagre share out of the forest’s body, redressed it with fencing and lighting to ward off danger, and declared it fit for purpose.

The Trail saw use for over five centuries, supported the weight of hundreds of thousands of bodies, and had successfully chained two communities by the hip, until magic razed half the Cantlin forest to ash. An azure, heatless flame sprang as if from nowhere, devouring every tree it touched within an hour of its birth. It continued to burn for days on end, scattering forest-dwelling life in every direction and resisting every attempt to quell its rampage, before it vanished as suddenly as it appeared, its hunger for destruction sated. 

Unintentionally, it had been the efforts of Windslow and Dairche combined that spared the remaining half of the Cantlin forest; the Oxlong Trail created a divide, made neighbours out of a whole, and though the flames licked and lapped hungrily at the trees across the Trail, they could not taste of them. 

What they consumed of the forest, however, would soon leave a grim sight well beyond the scared earth. 

The ruins of a once grand castle, of a once great kingdom stood pitifully as a scorched monolith. The Cantlin forest’s thick spread had hidden its walls, when both entities were still alive and well - with the forest gone, the wall’s threads had burned, and left them stripped naked and cold, denied dignity, put on show for all to see, to ogle, to mock. To celebrate and weep over.

The Kingdom’s demise had not arrived hastily. Three generations survived within its walls, under the command of four Kings that succeeded its throne. Humble beginnings encouraged steady growth and led into influence and power - and with them came intimidation, jealousy, enemies. Yet never had the Kingdom become embroiled fully in war, either for land, money, fame, or simple recreation. Its modest army had been no stranger to petty skirmishes against roving brigandes or plain old troublemakers, but the neighbouring kingdoms paid them little heed at that time. Forsorn was a budding land, the vast potential visible in its infancy, and the people were too busy tending to the seeds of their own gardens to envy that which grew next to their own. More peaceful times, perhaps, and times that could not ever have lasted. And last they did not. 

When the Cantlin forest combusted, many within the walls saw it as a terrible omen at first, yet the number of reasonable explanations to explain such an event were many. A vein of compact crystal hidden close to the surface deep within the forest, which had exploded into natural magic once the pressure grew too much. The birth of a dragon, wherein one life is exchanged for another, baptism and cremation entwined by flames. Two crystalline wizards, deep in the throes of passion, rollicking under the canopy of trees and accidentally discharging a fiery spell at a climactic moment. Many possibilities, all of them valid to citizens and kings alike. 

The forest had been an accident, a freak occurrence, and when acceptance had been found, life continued as normal.

Except, exactly one month after flames had struck the forest, the very same happened to Cantlin castle, and the city protected within its walls. A raw, experimental, cataclysmic magic poured through the castle and streets and homes and bedrooms and bodies of all, as if a gash had been rent in the sky and within its wound lay the depths of a sea - boundless pressure gushing out all at once, hurriedly and without mercy. Before the single, blinding flash of light engulfed the city, more than five thousand bodies breathed air within Cantlin’s walls - when vision returned, none of them remained among the living. Only flames stayed behind in its wake, that of deep blue hue - of blissful calm, and of inexorable rage. 

Neither slow ruin nor decisive battle had felled the kingdom of Cantlin; in the soft passing of a moment, it simply ceased to be.

Windslow and Dairche had found themselves spared the same fate as Cantlin city. Though they had found themselves in service to the kingdom in its prime, they had existed long before Cantlin was even a glint in King Feslder’s eye. Thus had arisen their need for a strong, reliable trading route between them, so they could provide for each other's well-being, as one would their trusted neighbour, in what they lacked the means or space to grow - Windslow in grains and vegetables, Dairche in animals, meat, eggs. With Cantlin gone, the kingdom dissolved too, like sugar to water, and the villages found themselves in service to no-one else once more - except each other. They had no need for a kingdom, for they would live on regardless. 

Oxlong Trail, however, would not. 

With Cantlin forest now split and stripped of danger, the villages had been freed to begin the creation of a more direct route. The twists and turns of the Trail were numerous, and had furthered the distance separating the two of them more than they would have liked. With the new opportunity presenting itself, they looked to cut at least a whole mile out of their future journeys. The villagers approached the task with great excitement, seeking to further strengthen the bond between their homesteads. Thus, in the shadow of the Cantlin walls, atop the defenceless grass that crumbled beneath their feet and the dunes of ash that parted way in their wake, they forged their new path and named it with much humour and affection - Dead Man’s Crawl. 

But, Cantlin had not died - not entirely. Decades passed before the walls of the city witnessed life re-enter them. Upstarts, burgeoning monarchs, with aspirations of taking the once grand castle city - gone, but not forgotten - and fashioning from its bones another grand kingdom in its name. Many had thought the land too tainted, too damned to ever inhabit again - but to Isild the Truthful, an accident did not prove a curse. And Cantlin’s demise, as sparsely recorded in history texts as it was, had been little more than an accident in his eyes. A tragic and fateful accident indeed, but an accident nonetheless.

With money and dedicated support at his back, work began on rebuilding. With time, sweat and patience, Cantlin had been reborn. Larger, grander, better - a truly enviable display. Having seen life return to the land that had been written off, more established Kingdoms soon began acting on their impulses. Conflict had grown across Forsorn, the questionable need for extra space ever increasing, though the negotiations and battles that ensued were infrequent and often tame, half-hearted. Cantlin managed to hold its ground as it regained strength, and before long was capable of fighting back at an advantage, and with that, the kingdom expanded further still, one small step at a time. The future of the kingdom looked bright, and Cantlin grew again, a fearsome boulder gathering momentum, and all notions of the kingdom disappearing - yet again - shrinked away in the glow of their continued success.

It took three generations, two kings and one queen before the kingdom of Cantlin fell. Yet again. 

The magic that struck it this time flowed less swift, instead more sinisterly purposeful, more indulgent. Had the first tragedy of the castle and its city been nothing more than a mere accident - an instant death - then the second had been crafted with murderous intent. The flames burned brighter, longer, and the nature of the magic expelled was that of suffering - not a painless, sudden silence, but a slow, crushing weight. Screams had been sought, and they were received tenfold. 

The result, regardless, was much the same - Cantlin had been destroyed. 

And yet, it still would not die.

Four decades drifted away before Ruslin Quilwar sought Cantlin for himself, with much greater intent - to discover the reason behind the kingdom’s sudden demise. He hired scholars, archeologists, sorcerers, mediums and alchemists from all across Forsorn in his endeavour to reveal the mystery that surrounded that one particular spot. 

The scholars recorded their findings in adequate detail. 

The archeologists excavated, and found nothing but the bones of those that perished long ago under compacted dirt, indicating the first revival of the kingdom had not been done so humanely - rather, the bodies had been built atop of, buried where they had fallen. While the discovery spoke ill of Islid the Truthful, he no longer lived to explain himself, and the graveyard of bones on which the Cantlin ruins marked was relatively harmless. 

The mediums called upon the spirits, and heard nothing but the wails and regrets of thousands, but nothing that would disturb those who did not wish to listen. 

The alchemists tested samples, but concocted nothing of note. Except for previously magic-touched dirt and stone, now inert and powerless, the land held no unique qualities. 

The sorcerers made one sole revelation, and it left them confounded - the magic used had neither occurred naturally, nor through human-crystal synthesis. The weak, ebbing traces of it that remained indicated unfathomable power, yet could not be sourced. And it terrified them. 

Lastly, Ruslin hired the services of a gravedigger to carry out a most grim endeavour - to give peace to those who had suffered, those bodies in their hundreds that were left rotting in the summer and freezing in the winter. A full year passed before the gravediggers task had been completed, the bodies laid to rest in a nearby field and marked with a single, clean tablet. The gravedigger then retired - his coffers full and mind irreparable. 

After two years of dedicated studying of the Cantlin ruins, Ruslin Quilwar, with much gratitude to his colleagues, attempted to release their findings. Yet, the version that saw publication, of which there was only one book, had been interfered with, and within its padded text, a summary: 

there was nothing inherently wrong with the land on which Cantlin was founded, and it would be safe to return to at any time. 

The sorcerer's persistent urgings of a great and terrible magic surrounding that area had been, rather regrettably, deemed unimportant on printing of the text, much to Ruslin’s furious displeasure. 

Despite frequent requests to review, the text had never been altered, and even more frustratingly, never saw the eyes of any common citizen. The desire to discover, however, had emptied the young noble’s funds, and with pained heart he returned home, submitting Cantlin to lie in ruins longer still. 

Ruslin, regrettably, passed away shortly afterwards, long before he could witness the kingdom resurrected once again. Shortly after Ruslin’s death, the sorcerers - who resided many miles away from the young noble - also passed away. Oh, oh so regrettably . A grand, ignoble tragedy indeed. 

The kingdom, in time, did rise again - another fool with another grand delusion - and saw long life after. The results, however, were much the same. More destructive, more painful - a knife twisted numerous times, and with unnecessary force.

Yet it still would not die.

Every time Cantlin rose, it was knocked back down twice as hard. And every time, Windslow and Dairche found themselves perpetually under the kingdom’s employ only to find it suddenly gone one day, its assets burned to a crisp. Hired and fired at an alarming rate, by different faces all using the same name; it bred sadness in the elderly, suspicion in the youth, and apathy in the generations thereafter. 

_Should Cantlin one day come knocking at your door, remember this: a deal is only ever to be entertained, and never relied upon._

Even with mounting violence across the land, Windslow and Dairche always survived, delivering life and sustenance across the back of Dead Man’s Crawl. Whatever foul curse haunted the kingdom, the villages found themselves thriving regardless. Never had aspirations of further growth and development crossed their minds in their long lives - to try and be more than what they were, to try and make a little kingdom of their own - for in that thought lay a frightening possibility that the neighbours might forge an enemy out of each other, for conflict inevitably lay in the depths of such grand desires. 

So they stayed as they were - contented, and alive, and with the reminder of what might have awaited them looming ominously to the north. 

Rumours soon swirled among the villages about yet another king seeking to restart the Cantlin kingdom yet another time - for ever was it in human nature to recognise a pattern formed clear as day before one’s eyes, and then proceed to ignore it entirely. For what being could resist attempting to tame such wild, destructive lands? Tenacity overwhelming - as burdensome as it was advantageous. 

Had any of the villagers cared, they might have considered laughing. 

Still, inevitably, the Cantlin kingdom would live once more - for it simply could not, would not, be allowed to die.

It was upon deep, thoughtful reflection over many, many, many long years that Xantor realised his placement on the surviving side of the Cantlin forest - in direct view of the Cantlin city walls across a dipping grey sea of deadened, unresseructable grass - had not been mere coincidence. His situation was crafted deliberately, a cruel and humourless joke at his expense, and all power to change it - to even so much as look away - had been taken from him, rendered him helpless. 

His skin, once flesh, now dulled and flaked with every passing year. The urge to itch taunted him endlessly, yet his arms now spread out above him, his fingers twisted and melded into branches that bared no life. What were trees to him in his former life were now his kin, and he stood estranged from them, grafted to the soil. None would speak to him, despite his attempts to interact. Delusional - even in his fading mind, he knew well. Still, he preferred to believe that they had chosen to ignore him instead.

His transformation took only half a year to fully take over before Cantlin forest had been razed, enough time for Xantor to settle into his new life. He struggled at first, when his body was still limber enough to sway and his vocals still rife with vibrato, and only more pain came of it. His pleas to the villagers that passed him by every single day went unheard, his form unnoticed, as if he spoke in the whispers of a ghost. Eventually, he stopped trying, and soon took comfort in watching people travel too and fro - hearing their voices, conversations, seeing delight and sadness cross their faces. Though such moments were fleeting and vicarious in nature, their consistent travel kept him relatively sane, though forever hurt.

When the flames came, they leaned over the Oxlong Trail like grasping hands stretched overboard from the deck of a burning ship, begging to save him, and Xantor would have gladly presented his own and let himself be dragged up to burn alongside them. Alas, he could not, and neither could they reach him before being swept away. 

To then witness his home burn shortly afterwards, so far away in the distance, filled Xantor with an emptiness he could not comprehend. To watch as the people who used to pass so close to him now follow another path, so distant, across a dead and foreboding sea, his desire to hear them speak - _anyone_ speak - growing ever deeper. To have his eyes unable to shut, and forced to pay heed to the rise and fall of Cantlin so many times over the course of uncountable years - hopelessness prevailed, and apathy rushed in to defend him, a battle it could not win. 

In time, all had lost meaning. Reality seemed as a nightmare, swirling ceaselessly and with no sign of relenting, and Xantor had simply been caught in its inescapable currents. He had become a being of immeasurable, suffocating loneliness encased within a useless, withered body - always dying, but never quite dead. 

And the worst of it - Xantor knew the culprit that sealed his fate, for they had been made out of his own blood.

He wanted to wake up.

“Such a shame.”

The voice sounded from in front of Xantor. On the slight incline just beyond the width of Oxlong Trail rested a man, sat down with his back turned to Xantor. Thick hair warmed the top of the man’s head, though its colour betrayed his age as that of an elder. Raggedy clothing sat loosely on his frame, and the slackness of the sack sitting beside him suggested him to be a follower of pauperism.

Xantor watched him - for he had no choice - and yet wondered how he had not noticed the man appear. Once the nostalgic elderly of the Trail’s primed had passed on, the villagers all but forgot the path they used to follow. So where could he possibly have come from, and for what purpose?

_Perhaps,_ Xantor thought, _he has always been there._

After silence, the man spoke again to no-one in particular. “How many more times will that ruin draw life towards it? The land yields no extravagance, no wealth, no bounty that could not be found elsewhere. To even exist within it now would be no more than senseless struggle, pain for the sake of pain. And yet they find themselves returning - fools used as tinder - again and again.” 

The man’s voice carried deep, yet thin, as though spoken with lungs ballooned by water. It had been so long since Xantor heard another person speak that he thought little of it, except comfort.

Quiet - punctuated by gently blowing winds, the rustling of hairs on Xantor’s kin. And then, the man turned his head to reveal pale, youthful skin and a blank, piercing stare, and forced Xantor to throw his previous assumption to the birds. His eyes were closed. “Moths and flames do certainly deserve each other,” the man said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Xantor did not speak. He was not even sure that he could anymore. And even if he could, he felt it not worth his time. What sat before him had surely taken hold of his splintered mind as an illusion, centuries of madness taken shape and corporealised before his very eyes. He had no will left to parley with such things, as invisible and forgotten as he was - only to hear them speak their words, whatever they may be, and feel inside a momentary remembrance of bliss. 

The man stood up, and turned fully to face Xantor. Then, he stumbled forward, plodding and unsteady. 

“Blood may have stolen your body,” the man said, “but has time taken your words too? Xantor.”

Hearing his name spoken aloud, seeing the man edge ever closer towards him; fear and uncertainty gripped Xantor. The man’s fingers were misshapen, his thumb as long as his index. No shoes protected his feet, and none would ever fit - long thin wedges, toes fused together. His mouth hung slightly agae, stuck halfway between a smirk and a frown, lips a sickening shade of white. All his weight dropped to one side with each step, closer, closer, his arms dangling at his side as though broken. Had Xantor the capability, he would have moved backwards, turned, and ran for his life. But no legs could carry him, and the man shuffled ever closer - like a demon wearing the skin of another man; a night terror creeping over his bed. 

And then, the man abruptly stopped.

“You have suffered a fate worse than death,” he said. “And in that, I feel immense pity. But do not let it take from you a conversation. Xantor Macmillion still lives, and he surely has much knowledge he would wish to share.” The man placed a hand on his chest and bowed his head - or rather, his head flopped down, as if sitting much too heavy atop his shoulders.

Xantor waited, anticipating further action from the man in his silence, and when none came, he noticed the man had ceased all subtle movement where he stood, frozen solid as stone. Wind drafted his clothing but could not shift his hair, stuck down against his head as an unflappable mass. The man showed no sign whatsoever that he even breathed air. 

With great force, and no shortage of pain, Xantor parted his wide, jagged mouth from its fused state with a splintering crack. Bark tumbled to the ground, and then he spoke.

“What. Are you.”

Without looking up, the man answered. “Concerned.”

“ _What._ Are. You.” Xantor’s monotone, laboured voice struggled to emphasise. The sensation of uttering even simple words after so long in silence felt alien to him.

The man’s hand fell from his chest, and his head drifted off to one side. He swung his torso back and around, and his head wobbled upright. His eyes slowly opened.

“I am merely a passer-by,” the man said. “That’s all.” And then he smiled - lips stretched unnaturally, unevenly, too high or too low on his face to be normal. Xantor couldn’t decide - it had been much, much too long. He did not believe the man’s claim, but pressing more would have likely proved unsuccessful - and perhaps, even more so, he did not so wish to know the true answer.

Xantor opened and closed his mouth a few times in an attempt to further limber it up. “Then,” he continued. “ _Who._ Are you.” 

The man froze again, unsettlingly, before his head fell backwards, and with it went his torso. Maintaining balance, he soon shot upright, eyes wide, pinprick pupils surrounded by grey. “Call me Ledth,” he said.

“Ledth,” Xantor repeated. “Ledth. Ledth.” 

The man nodded enthusiastically, and it ended with his head lopping lazily to one side.

“Then. Ledth.” His mouth creaked when it opened again. “What. Do you. Want. From me.”

“To make a request so soon of you, without even asking how you are?” Ledth shook his head one too many times. “Manners must be upheld, dear Xantor. Surely you have much you would wish to discuss.”

“I. Am. A Tree,” Xantor said woodenly. “There is. Little. News. Of which I. Can. Speak.”

Ledth tilted his head and pursed his lips, as if to say ‘Good point’. “Ah, yes, the rumours would not have reached you then. Taran Edelgard has staked a claim to rebuild the within the walls we witness now -” Ledth sweeped an arm in presentation “- and this time, for eternum. Truth by his own words, indeed. Well, I can confirm those rumours are not rumour at all - the man in all his glory will be here within the decade, an army of workers in tow and with half a mind to set everything right. Never again will another man, woman or child feel the lick of a flame in great Cantlin city. Maybe, instead, they’ll all freeze to death.” The man’s face suddenly contorted into that of disgust, and he swiveled to face the ruins. “I wonder how long they’ll last this time.”

Xantor stared straight ahead, blank and emotionless - as he was wont to do. “That. Means. Nothing. To me.” 

“No,” Ledth said, raising a palm. “Of course not. Forgive me, I do not seek to make light of your curr--”

“Have,” Xantor lethargically interrupted. “We. Been. Acquainted. Before.”

Ledth gazed at Xantor. His eye appeared to drift off to one side, like a leaf floating on a lake’s surface, before it snapped hastily back to its original place.

“Not personally,” he said. “But nonetheless, I know well of you.”

“Clearly. Enough.” Xantor said. “Especially. To find. My resting place.”

“A proper resting place would be a nice, warm bed, Xantor. Or a grave.” Ledth looked to him, and a sharp intensity entered his wide eyes. “This place is neither.”

“No,” Xantor agreed, his mind drifting listlessly towards remnants of memory - of silk-smooth duvet and feathered pillows. Yet, even a coffinless descent into a hole in the ground, at this point in time, would have given him equal comfort. “That. It is. Not.”

“Certainly not befitting of an alchemist such as yourself.”

Had Xantor any need for breath, it would have hitched. The man closed his eyes, and kept them closed. Graven seriousness consumed Ledth’s form.

“There’s no call for feigned surprise,” Ledth said, his intones bereft of any prior levity. “I knew your name; would you not expect me to know, too, your profession?”

“Former.” Xantor fought to eek out his words. “That was. So. So long ago. Now.”

“You remember it as though it were yesterday.” Ledth regarded him sternly - even through closed eyelids, Xantor felt his gaze. “No denial would convince me otherwise.” 

“I.” Ledeth wanted nothing more than to shudder, to relieve the tension now swelling from inside his prison. “I. Do not. Wish. To remember.”

“There is no choice in the matter,” Ledth said. “You choose to remember so much as a child chooses their eye colour, as a living body chooses food as a means to survive. As you choose to soak up rainfall through your roots. Though you may feel them so far away in your struggle to see, and to feel, what has since passed, you do not forget. And you cannot simply swat them away, for even a fly would return in rage to its aggressor. Your memories are choices made long ago, whether by you, or by others. And they will forever be within you - what creates you.”

For an arduous moment, Xantor fell into thought. Ledeth stepped backwards, waited patiently. 

“That,” Xantor soon said. “Is. Very. Presumptuous. Of you. Yet still. I do. Not. Wish. To remember.”

WIth a stiff, machine-like motion, Ledth ran a finger across his brow. “Then allow me to be more curt, Xantor; you remember,” he said, slowly, “because you have had no new memories to consider for over six hundred years.”

Even as the words stung deep, Xantor wished that he could throw even a single laugh. “Yes,” he said. “That. Is true.”

“Well.” Ledth said. His eyelids were still shuttered, relaxed and unstrained. For whatever reason, Xantor thought that he appeared more comfortable in his blindness. “I apologise again, Xantor. It is not my intention to wound you.” 

“I. Understand,” Xantor said. Even though the odd man - debatable in nature as he seemed - unnerved him to his core, he felt no true malice from his presence. An odd mixture. With further thought, he laboured speech once again. “Perhaps I. Have been. Too closed with. My words.”

“Not at all, Xantor,” Ledth said. “It has indeed been some time for you.”

“Yes.” 

Instinct told Xantor to clear his throat at that moment, had he almost tried, before quickly realising it would not be necessary.

“Then please,” Xantor said. “Tell me. Dear Sir. How I may help. You. This day.”

“Oh!” Ledth beamed, some manner of life returning to his voice. “Well, then. I would wish, if it pleases you, to know more about the strings that have bound you to this godsforsaken place.”

“How I. Came to be. As I present myself now,” Xantor said. “Yes?”

Ledth nodded once.

“How much. Are you aware. Of already. Dear Sir.”

“Presume my ignorance to be complete, Xantor.”

“What I. Mean is,” Xantor said. “How much do. You know about. My life. Before this.” He paused a moment, giving space. “You. Are quite. Obviously not. Human. I can presume. You have been here. Long since the beginning.”

Ledth’s eyes cracked open, and his face fell slightly, both figuratively and physically. He appeared almost hurt by the insinuation, yet quickly rebounded and smiled his crooked, unnatural smile. Then they closed again. “Try as I may, Xantor, you have seen through me. I am nothing but a sheep disguised as a wolf disguised as a sheep.” Xantor stared at him blankly. “But yes, I will acquiesce - you are known to me first hand.”

“Then,” Xantor said. He had to fight himself with every ounce of strength to continue. “You are aware. Of her.”

“Ah,” Ledth said. He placed a finger on his temple and regarded the grass with great interest. “Aware, yes, but not much more than that.”

“Then. Again. I ask. What is your. Knowledge of me.”

Ledth straightened up, and then dithered about unsteadily, shoveling dirt underfoot. “I am aware that your father had a wonderful sense of humour,” he said. “‘Macmillion and One Potions’. Only a true visionary would see the genius in that.”

Xantor wished to throw his head back in a hearty chuckle. Visions of his father sidled by, and he remembered. His face, wrinkled and kind, his beard, short and stubbly. He experienced anew the heat from his workbench on his skin, and heard the clinking of glass as his father concocted a new, experimental blend of ingredients. He felt the warmth of his father’s hands on his own, and the subtle, draining coldness that took over as he lay on his deathbed, until only the touch of ice remained. 

Though plagued by chill, Xantor spoke with flat jest. “Your. Sarcasm has been. Noted. Dear Sir.” Ledth shrugged animatedly, in clear disagreement with his assessment. “We were,” Xantor continued. “A laughing stock. Among the city.”

“Unrightfully so.” Ledth shook his head. “Alchemy is a respected and valued craft.”

“Perhaps now. It is so. In this. New world,” Xantor said. “What good were. Little concoctions of. Minor healing and parlour tricks. And false gold. In the face of new sorcery.” He watched as Ledth regarded him patiently. “We were as entertainment. To children young. And old alike.”

“There is value in that,” Ledth said. He drifted off to one side, as though the wind had given him a shove. “Even though it is far from an accurate assessment. Not enough credit granted, I would suggest.”

“Perhaps,” Xantor said.

“I’m also aware that you never recorded your findings. More specifically, none you scribed personally.”

“Yes,” Xantor said. Then - “I had. Intended. To take on apprentices. To teach them of alchemy’s. Many wonders. Once wrinkles began to chasm. My skin.” He paused. For a long time. “Alas. Never had I considered. To pass on my knowledge through. Such a medium.” 

And with a creak, Xantor followed up. “By choice.”

“Your research would have made a valuable tome,” Ledth said. He turned his head towards the sky. Still, Xantor noticed, the disguised man had not reopened his eyes, and he thought for a moment the significance to that, baring no conclusion. “As would your fascination with tree sap as a key component.”

“I would hope,” Xantor said. “That if alchemists of. Today are as. Respected as you claim. That they would have. Discovered. Its strength for themselves.”

Ledth’s shoulders sagged. “Advances have been made, Xantor. Yet the true value found in the lifeblood of your friends eludes them still. Too, ah, _mundane_ an ingredient for such forward-thinking souls.” 

“Ah,” Xantor said, disappointment clear even in the monotone forced on him. “That. Is a shame.”

“Your findings would have shown them otherwise.”

“Perhaps,” Xantor said. “Perhaps. But. To write a text. Such as that. Is to speak in absolute truths. Make recipes for. Proven results. And with it. Complacency would. Arise.”

Ledth tilted his chin upward, faced him blindly, as if expecting him to explain.

“The joy. Of alchemy. Lies in the. Experimentation. Dear sir.”

“Then I am afraid the accepted practices of today would sicken you, Xantor.”

Hearing that filled Xantor with a feelling he had not experienced in a long while - horrid, and soul-wrenching. “Then perhaps,” he said. “That is why. They are no longer mocked.”

The sun hid itself behind clouds. It was then that Xantor noticed his guest’s shadow - his shaggy clothing lay the thickest on the ground, but wherever part of his own being presented itself, translucency travelled with it. Thin white lines waved about inside the outline of a man, like light refracting through water.

“Your daughter knows its power though,” Ledth said flatly, and from deep inside Xantor’s trunk, he felt something drop. “Is that not correct?”

Xantor remained silent.

“Enough that she would have found the means to deliver you into your -” Ledth presented a hand towards him, “- current predicament.” His face scrunched as he scanned Xantor’s quiet neighbours. “There is a disconcerting irony in that.”

Only a soft rustle of leaves acknowledged Ledth.

“You say you took on no apprentice,” Ledth pressed, “but the child you, ahm, _sired_ , knows all that you had learned - and then some.” Xantor could only watch as the man’s face began to lose shape, as though he intended to drop all facade and reveal what lay beneath his pale skin. Mercifully, Ledth quickly returned to a form that Xantor had only just become used to seeing. “Is that not correct, dear alchemist?” 

“You have. Muddied your intent,” Xantor said as sternly as his form would allow. “With meaningless words. Dear sir.”

“Is that so?” Ledth said, leaning towards Xantor, his expression blank. “Then please, Xantor - tell me my own intentions.”

“You seek,” Xantor said. “To know the secrets. Of my private research.”

“You kept all your research private, alchemist.” Ledth levelled his head, swayed his body, and his tone fell downwards. “You talk then of secrets upon secrets - and I will have you know, Xantor, that your thinly veiled pursuit of elixirs eternal was one wrought of fairytale that drives the imagination of any truly passionate alchemist. A dream had by many, and one that could not be made manifest through sheer effort alone.”

Somehow, Xantor now found his voice capable of shuddering. “That,” he said. “May be so.”

“And yet once, Xantor, you still came close.”

Xantor paused, and for a brief moment - memories. Memories flooded him. Drowned him. “I. Did not come close. Dear sir,” he said. “I. Succeeded.”

“Just not in the way you expected.”

“Yes.”

Far away laughter swept along with the winds blowing in Xantor’s direction. He watched a small group of villagers hailing west from Dairche move along their new trail, like miniature dolls. A cow trailed behind them, led by hand, and further still, a child danced playfully atop the lifeless ashen ground. Ledth turned to witness the manner of sight that Xantor had grown far too accustomed to seeing, and after a few seconds, rebounded his attention.

“Tell me, Xantor,” Ledth said. “What was it like to be mother and father both?”

Xantor attempted a breath, and only a piercing whistle inside his hollow mouth indicated any amount of success. “With everything. You know about. Me. I would imagine you. Already know the answer to that. As well.”

Ledth ran the edge of his elongated thumb down the bridge of his nose - and the nose visibly moved downwards with it. “I fear my understanding of that very thing has proved quite elusive.”

Xantor’s mouth opened, and soon it amazed even him how easily the memories he once felt forbidden flowed out of him.

“Terrifying. Dear sir,” Xantor said. “To have birthed a. Child through the machinations. Of hands atop a workbench. To see life grow so. Rapidly. Without aid of a womb. Within the pale glass of. A beaker.” His jagged mouth chittered. “Even now. Knowing that such a reaction was. Is. Possible. Terrifying. Truly.” 

Ledth remained silent. In time, with his thoughts now elsewhere, Xantor continued.

“She grew. Quickly. From embryo to child in. Less than a year. There had been a time where. I fretted on how to. Sustain her. To provide for her as. Only a mother could have. Yet. She grew regardless. Of my involvement. 

When little hands could grab. She touched the world. Around her. And when words could be formed. She asked many questions. Hungry to learn. And I taught her. All that I could. She ate of food. And drank of water. As if by instinct. Yet. She did not require that which. A normal child relied upon.

And when her height matched my own. Her hair flowed long and fair. Her eyes that of mine. It was then that. I was certain. Of what I had done.”

Xantor could sense that Ledth was holding back a comment - but, whether through fickle change of mind or simple politeness, the disguised man kept it unsaid.

“What I once had to. Hide away. In fear of dire consequences. I had now been. Allowed to set free. An estranged child. Come back to me. To help her father sell. Macmillion and One Potions. Our customers did not question. Her origins. And the folk of the city. Found her presence delightful.”

“Had they known, Xantor,” Ledth said. “Dire, indeed.” And he left it at that.

“I gave my child. Everything I had. All the love that a. Parent unexpecting. Could hope to muster. She reciprocated. That love and warmth. For a time. And yet soon. I could feel her growing. Colder. When she requested knowledge. Of which I was ignorant. I could see the light in her eyes. Dwindle. Whenever she looked upon me. When children played. And she expressed her wishes to play among them. And I had to explain to her. That she could not. For grown women did not act so childishly. I could feel her resentment. Begin to overwhelm.

And when she came to me one day. Her face carved with silent rage. And asked of me. Demanded. Of me. To tell her. Where she came from. How she came to be. I could feel her. Hatred. Of me. Light the very room aflame. Whenever I looked away. From her. And said nothing.” 

Ledth let the silence that hung between them swing in the blowing wind for some minutes, until the rope snapped. Ledth’s eyes cracked open, only a little, then shied away once more, and the disguised man spoke with utmost seriousness.

“And those would be the only reasons she held ire for you?”

Immediately, Xantor retorted. “Do not even insinuate. Dear sir. Never once had I. So much as touched a hair. On my daughter’s head. And the very notion. Disgusts. And offends me.”

“An interesting conclusion to draw from that,” Ledth said. “But nonetheless. I do believe you.”

With a moment granted for calm, Xantor tried another breath. “I taught her. Everything. Dear sir. Everything. For seven years. Except for that. The discovery I made. A mixture of all that gave life. The essence of elements. Crystalline fine, both common and coveted. The feather of a bird. Reborn fresh from ashes. And. The fortitude. Of a tree.” 

“And just one tiny, little drop of something extra,” Ledth said. “Pure and unfiltered. Not too much. And not too little. Something so rare, that even a God would bargain with you to acquire it. Am I not right, dear alchemist?”

Xantor, frightened, said nothing. He understood exactly what the disguised man referred to, and did not want to acknowledge it.

“I did not wish to be burdened by such knowledge either.” Ledth’s pale lips flattened as he looked off to the side. “But what’s done is done, Xantor. In all regards.”

“Perhaps. I should have told her. The means of her birth,” Xantor said, and for once, emotion was finally able to seep through in his voice. Sorrow. 

“Perhaps, Xantor, she already knew.”

“Perhaps. I should have. Done more for her.” Xantor felt a welling behind his eyes, salty water blocked by thick dams. But he was a tree. His eyes were made of wood. And he could not weep. “If I had. Shown her just. How much I cared for her. How much I loved her. She might have spared me. Of this.”

“ _Perhaps_ , dear Xantor,” Ledth said, staring right through his bark from behind black masked eyes, “there was no amount of things you could have given that would ever have satisfied her.”

“No,” Xantor said. “That. I can not. Agree with. Dear sir.”

“Think of where you stand now, alchemist. Think of who rooted you to the ground. Consider the vista dangled before you, and what has occurred countless times - and what, I have no doubt, will occur countless times more. For as long as there is an audience, Xantor - Cantlin will always know ruin.”

His daughter stood before Xantor then, in his memories. 

He recalled the walk she had asked to share with him, as she had done so many times before. Up by Oxlong Trail, when the forest stood unmolested and the wolves watched with curiosity. At a time of day when the villagers had finished their travels.

She found a spot, bare, only grass and dirt, and asked him to sit with her. 

He heard her words there, and she spoke of the future; of things she hoped to accomplish, of leaving home, and him, behind.

Though her mind was still young, more suited for play than for work, he knew that, one day, he would have to let her go. 

He told her, with sadness, that it was okay, and that, in time, he would let her leave, and that whatever she set her mind to, she would no doubt become successful in, and that he would always love her, no matter what. 

As a father, he had thought, should say to his child.

Then she spoke of forgiveness towards him. For the little lies he told. For the secrets he kept. For underestimating her ability.

And had he known then the suspicion he should have felt, me might have acted differently. But he had thought nothing of it, and instead accepted her forgiveness, and apologised with light sincerity. 

And yet still he did not reveal anything.

She turned to him. 

Eyes small. 

Expression soft.

She asked of him one final thing. And he listened.

She asked

for the first and only time

if there was anything he could do

to help her fill 

the hole

the 

  
  


vast emptiness

  
  


that grew inside her

with

every

  
  


day

  
  
  
  
  
  


that passed.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And in his stunned, vacant silence, she had found her answer. 

And smiled warmly.

And then they sat there.

And then he apologised.

Again. 

Again.

That he did not know what to say.

That he did not know how to help her.

Again

And she said that it was okay.

And then silence fell between them.

  
  


She offered him a drink, from the waterskin she always brought with her.

For while she had no need of it herself, he often forgot to bring some for himself.

To look after himself.

So wrapped up in his craft as he often was.

He took of it with much guilt, and thanked her quietly.

And they sat.

For ten seconds.

Until breath began to leave his lungs, and his muscles began to swell.

He fell to his side, clutching his throat.

Spluttering coughs infused with his lifeblood.

She took opportunity in his weakness to lay him flat, and then stripped him of his clothes.

For he would not be needing them anymore.

She lifted him up from behind his back, as though he were a man weighed equal to feathers, and then moved to his front, and held him tight on both shoulders, kept him standing straight.

Until roots sprang forth from the soles of his feet, and dug their claws deep into the earth below, never again to loosen their grasp.

She grabbed his wrists, and raised his arms as high as they would go, reaching for a sky that would only stare back in apathy.

Until his muscles crushed his bones to dust, and rendered him unable to return them to his side.

She remained with him until his body had stiffened from head to toe. 

Smiling at him all the way.

And everytime he screamed out, as pain wracked his body to submission, she shushed him with soft, comforting tones.

As a parent would do to a child.

And he looked at her, tears in his eyes.

And found himself unable to say anything.

For in that moment he knew.

His little girl, a result born in his childish, foolish quest for immortality, had surpassed him in every way.

He knew now that she would outlive him.

That she would outlive many.

She stepped back and witnessed him.

A tree of flesh, soon to be little more than a sad, withered husk, of wood and bark that bared no life.

Always dying, but never quite dead.

With a warm, loving kiss to his forehead, she branded him.

A searing scar that itched incessantly, every minute of every day.

An itch he would never be able to scratch.

And with the garb of his former profession under one arm, and the tainted waterskin in the other, she smiled at him.

So warmly. 

So happily.

Then turned, and disappeared into the depths of the forest in front of her, never to be witnessed by his eyes again.

And all he could do was wait there, as his body slowly transformed.

Alone.

Until the months that passed took the forest in front of him away, and revealed the visage of a place he called home.

Until that, too, was taken away from him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A cruel and humourless joke, indeed.

“I,” Xantor said. “Do not wish to speak. Of this. Anymore.”

“Do you hate her?” Ledth asked. 

“Ledth,” Xantor said. “You spoke of her before. As though she still. Roams these lands. Tell me. Dear sir. If you can. Does Alz fare well?”

The disguised man faced him, motionless, and looked to ponder if the question was one worth answering. 

“She fares,” Ledth eventually said, squaring his shoulders. “And that is all I will say.”

“Ahh,” Xantor said, and deep within, he felt something stir. “Then. I was right.” 

Silence blanketed the conversation, and with it, Ledth had learned the answer to his question.

The disguised man grabbed his empty sack and slung it awkwardly over his shoulder. Xantor knew fine well that he had no need of it, and yet appearances, however unconvincing, needed to be kept.

As Ledth straightened himself out, shaking unsteadily on his feet, Xantor spoke. “I have heard them coming. Dear sir. With their axes. Times must have grown. Dire. That they would come to erase. The rest of this forest. Come back to this trail. To wipe it away for good.” He tried to chuckle. “I fear that they might overlook me. When the time comes.”

“Whatever magic had sealed you away,” Ledth said, swaying gently from side to side, “no longer remains. That we are even able to speak right now, like this, is testament to that. They will not avoid you, alchemist, though you may strike fear into them whenever they may bear witness to you.”

“Ever an outsider,” Xantor said. “For I am only equal here. Among my brethren. When the air grows cold. And strips them bare. I will plead with the. Woodcutters. Should it be necessary. For I had lived my life. Dear sir. Forever seeking a reaction. That would help others. I will gladly heat their homes. If it would make them happy.”

“Flesh and blood makes for poor lumber, Xantor.”

Xantor’s body creaked loud, aged wood attempting, and failing, to take a step forward. “You would consider me. Human still. After all this time.”

“I believe that a heart still beats,” Ledth said. “Well beneath those rough layers.”

“Ahh. Then. I hope. That I will find. The answer to that. Someday.”

The Cantlin walls demanded Xantor’s attention. He had no choice but to gaze upon them.

“Do you think. That my home. Will survive this time? I. Do not. Wish to see it burn. Anymore.”

Ledth turned to gaze with him, and looked over his shoulder. “I would ask you to consider what you might do to save it yourself. Just how far you would be willing to go to take the necessary steps.” 

“Yes,” Xantor said. He paused to let the wind whistle beautifully, soothingly. “Do you think. She will return to see me. Before they come. Whether to. Say goodbye. Or prolong my. Suffering.”

“She remains closer than you seem willing to acknowledge,” Ledth said. “And I think, Xantor, that she grows tired.”

“Yes. I. I know,” Xantor said. “I just. Need time. To think.”

“Then do me one simple task.” Ledth turned, and he noticed that the disguised man’s face was now flush with colour - healthy and pink. Yet his eyes remained at rest. 

“Think on it, Xantor. And then Sleep. Dream. When the time comes, I will take something from you. And, too, I will ask something of you. If you wish to see Cantlin live on, then allow yourself this small comfort, before you are removed from this world. The years have not been kind to you, alchemist. It is the least you can do for yourself.”

“Ahh,” Xantor said. “You would tell me. Then. That I have. Not been dreaming. This whole time. That I will. Not wake up. Someday. Wrapped in covers. And ready to start. A new day.”

“Sleep first, Xantor. There is still a chance for you to be free of all this.”

“Would that. I could. Ledth. But my eyes. Have refused to see. The darkness behind skin. For many years.”

“You found the strength to break free your speech, Xantor. I can only ask that you try for this as well.” Ledth smiled - and this time, with his eyes peacefully closed, it suited him.

“Then,” Xantor said. “I. Will try. Dear sir.” 

With a bow, both straight and graceful in posture, Ledth turned away. “I must be off, dear alchemist. Thank you for your time.”

Xantor considered asking the disguised man to stay with him a while longer. To talk. Just so that he could be near someone. Something. But he did not. “No. Dear sir. Thank you. For allowing me. This conversation.” He watched as Ledth moved out of his view, unable to follow. 

“Where,” he called out. “Shall you travel to. Now.”

And after a time - enough to convince Xantor that no answer was coming - Ledth responded from somewhere off to his side. “To Kalithan,” he said whimsically. “I wish to look upon the ocean.”

“Ahh. So Kalithan lives on. To this day. As well. People always spoke. So fondly of it. In my time.” He paused, and took in the sight of crumbling walls, and that dead, grey sea that framed its majesty. “I had. Always wished. To visit there. Someday.” 

“Next we meet,” Ledth said, “I will be sure to bring you a shell from its waters. So that you might hear the ocean for all its glory.”

“That,” Xantor said. “Would be. Nice. I wish you. Well. On your journey. Dear sir.”

And then, when minutes passed and no more words returned to him - familiar silence. Xantor was alone once more.

He thought of his father. 

He thought of his home. 

He thought of his passion. 

He thought of his daughter. 

Of Alz.

And then he thought of silver. 

Pure, and gleaming silver.

And kept it, too, in his thoughts for the rest of his days.

Xantor wished himself to sleep. But his eyes would not move. So he focused all that remained of his strength on the wooden chains that kept him from his desire. And in time, through effort, he felt them start to weaken. Bit by bit. Whether it took him days, or years, or until the end of time, he wanted nothing more than to blind himself and wipe away the vision of death and destruction that sat centre stage for him. That had been created for him.

He wanted nothing more than to have one simple rest.

  
  
  



End file.
